say you'll find me again (even if it's just in your wildest dreams)
by The Cinder Crown
Summary: Kingsley Shacklebot is known to be a great wizard, auror and Minister of Magic. But what about his early life? Have you known about the woman he loved? And how this one fateful wish destroyed it all? Once, they knew we what they were - happy and in love; they knew not may be in the future. Oneshot.


**Written for the Quidditch league Fanfiction Competition || Team Appleby Arrows |** Round IV – Forgotten Families | Beater II - The Shacklebolts

4\. (dialogue) "Could you be happy here with me?"

12\. (quote) A little drama wins more friends than boring. – Scott Westerfeld

13\. (scenario) a character is granted three wishes

 **Written for the OUAT character competition** || Sidney Glass | Write a Genie!AU

 **Written for the Shakespeare as your summary challenge** | 9. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.

 **Written for the theme challenge** || Theme 4 Betrayal | 2. Write about someone regretting a past choice

 **Written for the Are You Crazy Enough To Do It Challenge** || Silver | 152. (colour) gold

 **Written for the FRIENDS Competition** | 2.08. **TOW The List |** Write about a difficult decision. Alt. Write about a strange wizarding world job.

 **Written for the 100 ways to say I love you challenge** || 100. I love you

 **words:** 2,997

 _Thank you, Sam and Jill, my loves, for beta-ing!_

* * *

 **Like a genie locked in tight (voice your wish, though do it right)**

* * *

Kingsley Shacklebolt exhales deeply and leans his broad shoulders back against the fabric of his old office chair, his dark chocolate brown eyes steadily fixed upon the tiny, dust-covered object standing on his wooden desk—well, the desk that has been _his_ for several years. Tomorrow, it will finally find a new owner and Kingsley is more than satisfied with the people's choice of electing Hermione Granger to replace him as Minister of Magic.

' _She'll do good,'_ he thinks as he lets his tanned, wrinkled hand trace the outlines of the dusty-golden oil lamp in front of him—so many memories in it, bittersweet memories of a time almost forgotten and yet always at the back of his mind. No matter the situation, no matter what battle he had been fighting in, no matter the people around him—Amara has always been on his mind. And along with her image, his guilty conscience has been his steady companion for nearly as long.

The mere thought of the past causes his hands to tremble, much to his dislike. But he cannot deny that the years of loneliness are finally taking their toll on him. Now, in a time of peace, he doesn't need to be the strong, skilled, powerful Auror everyone asked for advice.

Now, everything was taken care of, and while most of the people are living their happily ever after, Kingsley feels his own walls crumbling around him. Walls he had built around himself such a long time ago to protect the broken bits and pieces that were left of his once so fierce heart. It worked astonishingly well, the act of deceiving himself by taking upon himself one task after the other in order to feel busy. Now, however, he is about to retire, and there was not a single task left to distract him from his sorrow, pain, and guilt.

"I kept my promise, Amara," Kingsley whispers as he clutches the lamp tightly in his hands, tears starting to form in his eyes. "The war… it's finally over. I did my duty and contributed my part. I fought, Amara. I fought for you—like you wanted me to—and for the future we never had."

For a brief moment, the old wizard considers throwing the dusty old lamp across the room, preferably against a wall so he could see how it burst into pieces. But like so often, the picture of the young woman with the astonishing blue eyes and dark, curly hair stopped him. The smile she used to flash him, and the way she danced in her favourite white dress that contrasted her olive skin so perfectly.

If he were to destroy the lamp—the embodiment of a curse that was a constant reminder of the cruelties of fate—he would destroy her legacy. And like many times before, he dismisses the thought, along with the stabbing pain in his chest, and tenderly brushes his fingers over the cold metal again.

' _Once_ ,' he thinks bitterly and uses his hand to brush over his bald head, ' _this golden oil lamp was like a gift, filled with such hope and happiness that would make every wish come true._ ' Now, however, it resembles a curse that chains him to his deepest faults, regrets, and sorrows—with no way of breaking it.

Instantly, a new wave of pain threatens to suffocate him, and Kingsley closes his eyes, and tries—like so many times before—to hold on to the good memories…

.x.X.x.

An eleven-year-old Kingsley strolled along the deserted streets of the little village. The air was cold at this time of the year, so the little boy with deep, chocolate brown eyes tightened his cloak around himself. It was his favourite one—a blue velvet fabric adorned with golden elements and little stars embroidered all over it. It was a gift from his aunt who lived in the far away Orient. Kingsley and his family used to go there a lot—he loved the dunes of sand, the camels, and the beautiful starry nights—but ever since his mother had died, his father had grown bitter and distant.

Mr. Shacklebolt thus didn't really care about the fact that his only son was walking around the village all on his own. Really, all that mattered to him were his status as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the amount of whiskey bottles in the attic. Surely enough, once his stack had been reduced, he sent his son to get him some new. Like on this day.

The good thing about that arrangement, though, was that little Kingsley was able to look through all the lovely decorated windows of the shops. The many colours and objects that greeted his sight made him smile every single time because it distracted him from his black and white life he was used to seeing at home.

However, his smile always broadened upon entering the village's little antiquities store. His mother always used to take him there, and the shop owner—an old friend of Mrs. Shacklebolt's—always offered the children some sweets.

Upon entering, Kingsley sucked in the dusty air and tried to reminisce the scent. It wouldn't be long before he was going to start his first year at Hogwarts after all.

Strolling through the many departments of the little shop, he smiled faintly at the familiar bookshelves at each side, the old marionette puppets hanging lifelessly on their strings, the tables stuffed with old vases, ancient lamps, and rusty cups and trinkets.

There was this nostalgic sense in the air—the objects offering him the opportunity to imagine all kinds of stories. The sword, for example, that was hanging at the brick wall at the end of the corridor, was the reason why little Kingsley wanted to become an Auror. The boy pictured himself as the hero he had read about in his books, sword and wand in each hand, riding on his thestral and saving—

 _OUCH_!

Kingsley rubbed his head and adjusted the small blue and golden hat that fitted his robes so perfectly. His daydreaming about his future had—like so many times before—caused him to bump straight into someone.

Tossing on the ground, albeit trying to get into an upright position, he soon moved his head and his brown eyes widened. The pair of beautiful, bright blue eyes he found himself looking into belonged to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her tiny nose, the little freckles on her face, her olive skin—adorned with an adorable crimson blush on her cheeks—as well as the long, black hair that cascaded down her shoulders in soft curls caused his mouth to fall open.

He didn't know for how long he had been staring at her, but once the girl started to giggle, Kingsley shook his head vehemently to get out of his stunned silence.

He covered his embarrassment with a gentle cough, then he got up completely and offered his hand to the girl in the white dress.

"I'm really sorry," he stuttered. "I tend to get rather lost in my dreams whenever I am in this shop."

The girl picked up the books that had earlier fallen down and smiled. "Well, it is a dreamy and ancient place to be, isn't it?"

Upon seeing her expression, Kingsley sighed in relief and straightened his blue robes. "Yeah, it is. Though I never really knocked someone to the ground. Didn't mean to cause any drama."

To his utter surprise, the little girl—she could not have been older than eleven—gave him a cute kiss on the cheek. "Don't worry about it. Don't you know what they say? A little drama wins more friends than boring."

This said, she turned around and strolled towards the counter of the shop, laying her books down on the surface to pay for them.

Little Kingsley stood there, stunned, for a couple of seconds, before he raced after her. "Hold on," he screamed after the ringing of the door bell indicated that she had left the shop. "Please, hold on; I need to know your name!"

Stopping in her track, the blue-eyed girl turned around. "I'm Amara," she said and waited for the dark-skinned boy to catch up with her.

" _Amara_ ," Kingsley whispered, her name like sugar on his lips. "I'm Kingsley. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Nice to meet you."

.x.X.x.

The years passed quickly for both Kingsley and Amara. As it turned out, the both of them had more in common than they had first anticipated. And what started as an unintentional encounter in an ancient antiquities store, soon turned into the strongest friendship the people of the small village had ever seen.

Naturally, Kingsley had feared that they'd lose each other when his Hogwarts letter arrived, but as the 17-year-old now glanced at the beauty next sitting next to him in the Great Hall, he still couldn't believe that Amara—whose parents were both muggles—had magical abilities as well.

At Hogwarts, it was a strange sight, of course—the tall, dark-skinned, and broad-shouldered pure-blood wizard never leaving the side of his shy and quiet muggle-born friend. Even to this day, his friends weren't able to understand what he saw in her.

But as the lovely witch leaned her head onto his shoulder, listening to another of the many speeches that were given during their graduation ceremony, Kingsley softly laid an arm around her. His friends were clueless, but young Shacklebolt knew that from the day he had first met her: Amara had brought the colours back into his life.

At the end of the ceremony, they even exchanged gifts. Of course—it couldn't be otherwise—they had both bought something in the little antiquities store. Kingsley had given her the first, signed edition of her favourite author, and Amara had gifted him with an old and ancient oil lamp. She knew about his love for the Orient, and the magic that was to be observed there. The little parchment scroll that was attached to the lamp was the reason she had bought it for him. It said that the genie slumbering in the lamp would grant its owner three wishes.

Sure, they both knew that it was a long shot that the legend was true, but it was the gesture behind the gift that warmed Kingsley's heart. It was, after all, the most personal gift he had ever received.

.xXx.

Their first kiss had been sweet, lovely, passionate, and unexpected. They had both passed the Auror-training-test and it seemed like all the feelings that the two of them had developed towards one another finally surfaced—right there, in the forest, both of them covered in dirt and mud after their latest training session.

"Could you be happy here with me?" Kingsley whispered lovingly into her ear, fear evident in his deep, baritone voice.

Amara's answer was simple and elegant at the same time as she pulled him close and kissed him once more.

.x.X.x.

Sure enough, their moments of happiness didn't last very long. The war against Voldemort was raging, and friends were killed all around them. In times like these, one had to hold on tight to the things they loved, and Kingsley didn't want to waste another minute and proposed to Amara.

They could have been so happy, the both of them, if it wasn't for his father who, upon hearing about the engagement, thundered in his drunken state and forbade their union.

Kingsley had grown into a strong, respected man, but the old laws made it impossible for him to marry the love of his life if his father didn't give his blessing.

"There might be one more thing we could try," Amara said one evening, glancing at the shelf where his treasured oil-lamp stood.

The dark man raised an eyebrow, but the witch ignored him and retrieved the object. She swished of the dust, handed it to him, and he rubbed it.

To both their astonishment, a silvery glow erupted and only seconds later, the ghostly appearance of an old, grey-haired man appeared—his hand adorned with golden cuffs, his chest bare, and his feet weirdly stuck together in a dusty cloud that was still partly attached to the oil lamp.

He cackled upon seeing their confused and desperate faces, but in the end, he introduced himself in a gentlemanly way and informed them about the tale that whoever rubbed on the lamp would be granted three wishes.

Kingsley and Amara were both fascinated by the Genie and only half-heartedly listened to the warnings and restrictions he uttered, including the fact that one had to be careful by how they phrased their wishes; a lot of them could backfire.

.x.X.x.

They didn't listen to the Genie, though they really should have—it would have spared them the consequences of a lifelong misery.

The first wish, intended to bring hope and happiness, started it all.

"I wish for a way to marry Amara without my father's blessing," Kingsley said and the Genie snapped his fingers—the wish was granted.

The following evening, the couple visited Mr. Shacklebolt, only to find him lying on the living room floor, his throat sliced open by a broken bottle of whiskey, a pool of blood around him, and his eyes shallow and haunted.

Amara screamed upon seeing the old man like that and buried her head in Kingsley's shoulder; sobbing and crying uncontrollably for they knew very well that their wish had cost him his life.

The cruelty of the sight was forever burned into Kingsley's mind, and they both swore to never utter a single wish again, too afraid of what might happen.

.x.X.x.

Years later, on the battlefield, Kingsley—sweaty, dirty, and exhausted—found himself breaking that vow as his Auror partner and wife of many years bled to death in his arms,

"P-Promise to fight," Amara whispered as the life energy slowly vanished from her blue eyes. "P-Promise to help them win this war."

It was the first time ever since his mother had died that Kingsley allowed himself to cry.

As he watched Amara getting weaker and weaker, a sudden and equally tempting, forbidden thought crossed his mind. His mind screamed at him not to do it, but his heart was stronger, and with a flick of his wand, he summoned the old oil lamp that was hidden in the darkest corner of their house.

He'd sacrifice his own life in order to save Amara.

Without hesitation, he voiced his second wish. "I wish for Amara to live."

This time around, the Genie's eyes sparkled dangerously as he cackled, "Thank you, Master, for breaking the rules." With a snap of his fingers, the golden chains around his wrists opened and wrapped around Amara's within seconds. "She'll live, but not the way you probably hoped for."

This said, the Genie vanished in thin air, and before Kingsley got the chance to draw his wand, Amara was sucked into the oil lamp—forced to take the Genie's place and continue her life in his lamp.

Kingsley felt his heart shatter. He broke down on his knees and clutched the lamp that contained the love of his life tightly to his chest, crying until there were no more tears left to shed.

.x.X.x.

Over the years, Kingsley had tried every single spell on the lamp, but they all failed. Nothing could make his wish undone, and his love was still trapped. At times, when the sorrow and loneliness threatened to suffocate him, he was tempted to rub on the lamp just so he could see Amara again.

But then his common sense kicked in and pushed the thought away; once the third wish was granted, the bottle—and the Genie—would vanish to an unknown place. That's what he had figured out, and he couldn't risk losing the only thing he had left of her.

So he continued his life, the oil lamp always in a pocket of his robe, no matter where he was going.

Amara was with him when he heard about the Potters' deaths, when they fought in the Department of Mysteries, during the final battle of Hogwarts; and the oil lamp was with him during his years as Minister of Magic—the lamp constantly reminding him of his own failure and selfishness.

.x.X.x.

And now, here he is, staring once again at the lamp that turned his dreams of a wonderful future into a nightmare of never-ending loneliness. He thinks about all the people that thanked him for his duties during the war, and that _"... without you, we'd never have won this."_

They all think he is sad about being succeeded by Hermione, but deep down, he knows that he has been waiting for too long for this to happen.

He remembers Hermione, concern in her eyes, standing in the door frame only a couple of minutes earlier.

" _What will happen to you now, Kingsley?" she asked. "Now that everything has come to an end?"_

 _Kingsley had indeed been thinking about that for quite some time before a sudden thought had hit him. "I fought," he told her, brushing the lamp in his robe. "Now, the only thing I want is to see my wife again."_

This thought in his mind, he rubs the oil lamp with shaky hands, and his heart skips a beat when Amara—dressed in an oriental Genie outfit—emerges from the lamp.

"Kingsley," she says, love and pain alike in her voice.

He smiles faintly; a tear rolling down his cheek upon seeing her again after what felt like an eternity.

"You know what I wish for?"

"I do," she says, blue eyes twinkling knowingly. "But is this really what you want?"

He smiles softly; she has always known what he was thinking. "There is nothing I wish more than to be with you again, my love."

A tear rolls down Amara's cheek as she flicks her hand.

The room fills with glittering smoke, and as it encircles Kingsley, he feels how they both get sucked back into the Genie's lamp—trapped forever, but united at last.


End file.
